


Harbour

by yeaka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 07:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12954363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fëanor scolds Caranthir.





	Harbour

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Fëanáro can see exactly what his servants have been fretting over. There’s an incriminating trail of dirt that plods right beneath the door of Morifinwë’s quarters, staining the marble tile and crimson carpet alike. He knocks against the wood in a fit of restrained tension. Anyone else would face his full fury for such disrespect of his halls, but his sons have always received some leniency, and so they will now. He’s sure after a stern warning, Morifinwë will apologize and never again repeat this childish offense.

It takes a few minutes too long for the door to creep open, and then Morifinwë’s youthful face sticks through it. It’s already odd for him not to invite his father inside; Fëanáro’s senses heighten. He always knows when his sons are up to something, though Morifinwë isn’t usually his troublemaker.

Morifinwë asks, tellingly stiff, “What is it, Adar?”

“What is it?” Fëanáro repeats, voice cold. He gestures down towards the floor and the evidence stuck to it. “You have sullied my corridors, the kitchens, our gardens, and, I am told, made a fitful mess of your quarters. Servants are prone to gossip, Moryo. They will not only have told me of your poor conduct.”

His graceful Kanafinwë might bow in shame, and his noble Nelyafinwë might offer troubled acceptance. But Morifinwë can be... difficult... when he wants to be, and he merely meets Fëanáro’s gaze, ever defiant. He says only, “I have done what I must.”

“You must act like an animal?” Fëanáro all but seethes. “Then perhaps you are not fit to hold quarters of this great line, if you will not respect them so.”

Morifinwë says nothing, like daring his father to cast him out. Fëanáro never would, of course, but he’s not above threats, and he knows his will is greater than even his son’s, at least at this point. Likely, Morifinwë will grow into a fierce warrior befitting of his family, but for now, he is still a young thing that lives within his father’s roof. He remains strong, standing firm, until a faint crash sounds in the room behind him, and then his head whirls around. Over his shoulder, Fëanáro can see a fluffy black creature bounding onto his sofa.

Fëanáro _stares_ while the four-legged beast totters around the cushions, until he realizes what he’s looking at: a little goat, _a barnyard animal_ , traipsing all over his rich furnishings.

He looks back to Morifinwë, scandalized, and Morifinwë finally has the decency to flush. “I had to take him in!” he exclaims, with such conviction as Fëanáro might have over his greatest creations. “The cooks wanted to carve him up, simply because he is smaller than the others, but that does not lessen his value! He is a wise, loving creature that deserves his life! I will not relinquish him to their slaughter!”

As if on queue, the goat hops off the sofa and trots over to the back of Morifinwë’s legs, which it rubs against before nipping at them. Morifinwë continues to stare Fëanáro down, ignoring the useless filth gnawing at his expensive robes.

For once, Fëanáro genuinely has no words. He doesn’t know where to start, because while his propriety screams to have the unruly beast thrown from his halls, he sees the fire in his son’s eyes. He’s actually _proud_ , in a way, of Morifinwë’s dedication; some day, he will be a lord over many others, and if he guards his people as well as he guards this flea-bitten pest, he will do well indeed.

There is, of course, the other matter—that Fëanáro has always provided for his children, and he has never denied them any gifts. Granted, they usually wish for much grander things. The goat bleats, and Morifinwë reaches down to pet its head before gently nudging it aside, out of Fëanáro’s accusing stare.

To Fëanáro, he repeats, “I will not surrender him.”

So finally, Fëanáro, choosing his heart over his mind, decides: “Very well. But you will take more care for cleanliness—the next time he is to tax my servants, they will receive him do with what they will.”

Something flickers in Morifinwë’s dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, but he does finally soften into an almost-smile. He bows his head in gratitude but doesn’t utter the words. He doesn’t have to: Fëanáro can read him well.

He bids, “Adar,” and turns back into his quarters. Fëanáro lets him go and leaves the other way. 

When it’s passed and new light is on the situation, Fëanáro chuckles.


End file.
